


Lorgan

by hennethgalad



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: before the Iron Throne





	

                         Lorgan

 

  
   Lorgan rode towards Angband, cold from the northern wind, and from fear. The leaders of the nine tribes had been summoned to the Iron Throne to pay allegiance and receive orders. The message had promised slaves as reward. Lorgan smiled greedily, he hoped there would be enough to restock his mines as well as some to trade; it was so hard to keep them alive in the mines, they would keep using their picks on the guards, and then he had to get grisly with them to put the fear of Lorgan into them. Tiresome and expensive. He looked up, the place was appalling, like a scream made solid, the very earth abhorring the foul affront to life that towered as a tombstone over the plains below.

  
   To his astonishment, they were met at the vast black gates by an elf, although when he looked into its fair face he shrank back in horror; its eyes were dead. Not just expressionless but fixed, staring, dry and dead. It never blinked, the eyes never moved, it turned its whole head in order to see. Suddenly Lorgan believed the tale, that no elf worked for The Dark Lord, that the breaking of their mind killed them, and that they ceased to be elves, becoming instead foul orcs. This one did not much resemble the orcs Lorgan had seen; if it were not for the horror of its eyes Lorgan would have called it fair, though he was made uncomfortable by the fact that apart from the manacles welded around its throat, wrists and ankles, it wore nothing whatsoever.

   The nervous leaders followed the 'elf' to a large empty room. In a voice as dead as its eyes it intoned

   'You will be naked before the Iron Throne.' Then stood as motionless as before.

   There was a long still silence.

   Lorgan, appalled at his own folly, asked it 'What if we are not ?'

   The 'elf' turned its head and recited mechanically 'You will be naked before the Iron Throne. Whether by your own hand or at the hands of the guards, who will remove the hair from your body, the teeth from your mouth and the nails from your hands and feet. You will be naked before the Iron Throne.'

  
   There was a frenzied rush to undress. Nervous hands fumbled at armour straps, and familiar bootlaces turned to gnarled knots. Lorgan looked sourly at the magnificent musculature and honey coloured skin of the youngest of the leaders and sighed as he looked down at himself. By the devils, he had the breasts of a woman... He sneered at his own gross belly, the breasts of a pregnant woman...

   He shook his head, the 'elf' led them out, across a freezing courtyard, whose icy stones seemed to cut the soles of his feet. Lorgan glanced up, along the top of the wall he could see movement, waving. He peered up then recoiled. There were people, impaled on spikes all along the wall. One of them was writhing in agony. The others seemed dead, but even as he watched, a corpse was lifted off and a fresh victim impaled. Faintly the screams floated down, as they were led under a black arch.

   
   The long stairs descended past a wall pierced with many blank, black holes, out of which a cold air poured, smelling of death and old, old stone. The sound fell dead in what looked like a vast space.

   He touched the 'elf' lightly on the arm. It stopped and turned its whole head toward him. He pointed at one of the holes, and swallowed, reminding himself that he was a favoured employee, not a prisoner. 'What is that ?' he asked it.

   It turned its head towards the hole and back again 'That is The Pit.' it said and walked on down the stair.

   Except for the guards, everyone they passed was naked and manacled like the 'elf' leading them, but all the 'elves' had the same dead eyes. One human male actually looked fearfully at them, but the rest hurried past, and all, of all kinds, were silent.

  
   A low sound began to echo up the stairwell, like the wind in a storm, rising and falling, a sound to freeze the marrow in the bones. Voices, moaning in despair, wailing in anguish and screaming in agony. The hairs stood up on Lorgan's arms and he thought of having them removed from his body by guards and retched with fear.

   They approached tall doors, guards opened them and the noise became deafening. As he stepped forwards Lorgan quailed, his senses battered by the noise, the light, the smoke, the stench and the miasma.

   In the next heartbeat, he almost hoped his heart would stop and spare his mind the memory. For in one instant of shocked insight, he saw the whole grisly cycle. The pillars of the hall were brick, but built into the bricks were men, elves and dwarves, at every stage of bloody dismemberment, with horrors barely imaginable perpetrated upon them. Fresh victims were being bricked into a new pillar in one place, while an old pillar elsewhere was being demolished. Orcs were hurrying about with ladders, and every few minutes another writhing figure was set alight. For the vast hall, thick with pillars, was lit by the light of burning bodies, living and dead, and the sound of their screaming filled the rancid air. 

  
   Several of the tribal leaders, inculding Lorgan, vomited. But the 'elf' looked neither right nor left and led them up the slight slope to the dais at the far end of the room. The Iron Throne was empty. Two bodies, at least one of which was still struggling feebly, were impaled on the needle sharp spikes on the back of the Throne.

   Lorgan, almost paralyzed with fear and horror, hoped he would not be asked any questions. He very much doubted that he retained the power of speech.

   The 'elf' spoke again. It said 'You will be prostrate before the Iron Throne.'

   The tribal leaders looked at each other blankly. Lorgan sighed 'What is "prostrate" ?' he asked it.

   It lifted its hand and held the palm towards them, then lowered its hand so that the palm was facing the floor. Lorgan sighed and lowered himself to his knees. He lay down on the cold, stinking floor, shivering, trying to block out the screams of burning people and the crackle of burning flesh.

 

 


End file.
